Burn for you

Poon stepped outside to get some fresh air. Spending his Saturday night accompanying his father to a meeting he cared little about wasn’t exactly his idea of fun. The tie around his neck felt like a noose, and he tugged at it slightly, each passing second making the thought of leaving more appealing. He hadn’t been given much choice about coming here, dragged along with barely any explanation.

What he hadn’t expected was to find himself surrounded by the heirs of Bangkok’s most prestigious families. Some, like him, looked like they’d been forced to attend, while others seemed to be trying far too hard to feign interest in the proceedings.

“Well, you’ve given me a reason to leave the meeting,” came a familiar voice.

Poon turned to see his best friend, Nani, sliding up beside him, hands in his pockets, a lazy grin on his face.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Poon asked.

“I should,” Nani admitted with a shrug, “but this could’ve easily been an email.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Poon replied, matching Nani’s sarcastic tone.

Nani had even less reason to be here than Poon. Everyone knew his brother, Nanon, was the one destined to inherit their family’s empire. That had been clear since they were children. Not that Nani dwelled on it—he’d never cared much for the whole empire thing anyway.

“I needed some air before heading back,” Poon said. “Your father seems to be in a bad mood. Your brother too.”

“When are they not?” Nani smirked, leaning casually against the wall.

They stood side by side for a few moments in companionable silence, the muffled sounds of the meeting seeping through the heavy doors. Finally, Poon sighed and made his way back to the lion’s den.

He wasn’t even a few meters from the door when the voices inside began to rise, deep and authoritative, cutting through the air like blades.

Vegas stood beside his son, his presence towering over the room, each word he spoke landing with the weight of a gavel. Venice and Chimon—heirs to the Theerapanyakul and Jumpol Atthaphan families, respectively—exchanged glances across the table. That explained Nanon’s foul mood. High school-level drama among the so-called elite, Poon thought, stifling the urge to roll his eyes.

“The routes to Vietnam are closed off until further notice,” Vegas finally stated.

“Then—”

Nanon started to speak but stopped abruptly when his father shot him a sharp glance. It was subtle, but Poon caught it. He always noticed the things others missed.

About half an hour later, the meeting ended, transitioning into the formal dinner. Nani hadn’t even bothered to return, and honestly, Poon wished he could’ve done the same.

The mafia felt like a stupid playground.

Poon sighed as he surveyed the seating arrangements. Why was he stuck at the table with the “young misters”? He would’ve much preferred to kill his boredom listening to the old farts drone on about their topics of choice. But it was too late.

He found himself seated between Venice Theerapanyakul and Nanon Korapat. Since when was he Switzerland? Stuck between stupid and stupider, he thought bitterly. Someone had to stop them before they launched into a full-blown dick-measuring contest. As heirs to the city’s two most powerful empires—and equally egotistical maniacs—they were a disaster waiting to happen.

No one sat at the heads of the table tonight, but Poon had no doubt that those seats would one day belong to his current dining companions. They were still too young for that honor, though the weight of it loomed over them like a shadow.

This country had been run by those two families for what felt like centuries. Perhaps it truly had been.

Poon’s gaze swept over the table, taking in the usual suspects:

Chimon Jumpol, wearing an amused, almost predatory smile and a Prada suit. Three words: spoiled, annoying, untouchable. If anyone reveled in the luxuries of this life, it was him. He seemed thoroughly entertained as he chatted with Sky Wongravee.

Sky Wongravee—playboy, genius, wasted potential. Poon respected his preference to keep to himself, but that respect waned the moment he caught Sky winking at Nani from across the table. Ugh.

Nani, his best friend. Irresponsible, lost, but undeniably sweet. Poon enjoyed his company more than he cared to admit.

Then there was Marc Natarit.

A shiver ran down Poon’s spine as he met Marc’s gaze—those dark, heavy eyes full of secrets. Marc was a cold-blooded killer, a problem Poon could barely tolerate. He was as volatile as they came, and yet, Poon couldn’t figure him out, even after all this time.

“Lost something?”

That voice.

Poon blinked, realizing he’d been staring.

The dinner ended as abruptly as it had begun. Poon slipped into his car, the weight of the evening pressing down on him as he drove through the dark, empty streets. The city’s neon lights blurred in his peripheral vision, but his mind was elsewhere.

The guy pulled up to his window, grinning like a mischievous child.
“You aren’t going home yet, right?”

“I was, actually.”

Poon wanted to laugh at the exaggerated pout Nani gave him.

“Come on, after-party at The Den. I’ll treat you.”

“Fine.”

The Den was a luxury underground bar, one of Chimon’s family ventures. Poon didn’t mind nightlife; contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t boring. He just didn’t like partying with any crowd.

Nani’s bike roared ahead, weaving through the traffic before screeching to a stop in front of the bar. Poon parked his car and stepped out, a strange feeling prickling at the back of his mind. Something told him tonight would be... interesting. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

The place reeked of alcohol, money, and excess. A haze of neon lights and pounding bass welcomed him as he walked to the bar. Sliding onto a stool, he scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His negroni arrived quickly, and just as he lifted it to his lips, Nani appeared, grabbing his arm and dragging him through the crowd toward the VIP zone.

“Well, here we go,” Poon muttered under his breath, allowing himself to be pulled along.

As they approached, he caught sight of Nanon whispering something to Marc before disappearing toward the back of the bar. Nanon spared him a glance, lifting his whiskey in acknowledgment. Poon returned the gesture with a small nod.

Nanon shouldn’t have access to that side of the place, but he was Nanon Korapat. He did whatever the hell he wanted, and most people didn’t dare to stop him. Poon let it slide, settling into the plush VIP seating with his drink.

Nani sat beside him, chattering about something Poon didn’t bother to follow. His attention wandered. Sky was flirting with a barely-clothed girl by the bar, and Chimon had just arrived, flanked by his guards. The heir had traded his suit for something more casual but no less expensive.

Chimon, ever pretentious, took a seat beside Nani, exchanging meaningless small talk. Poon tuned it out, letting the thrum of the music fill the void. He had to admit, the Jumpols knew how to run a club.

Three minutes later, Chimon stood, smiling faintly before heading in the same direction as Nanon—toward the back. None of his guards followed.

Time slipped by. Poon hummed along with the music, ordering another drink. Nani had disappeared onto the dance floor, leaving Poon alone in the VVIP section with Marc.

They didn’t speak. They never did. It wasn’t like they enjoyed each other’s company.

Marc leaned back, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his dark eyes scanning the room. He looked relaxed, but Poon could tell he was anything but. One hand rested near his gun, his posture deceptively casual.

Poon’s gaze lingered on him longer than he intended. Marc always carried an air of danger, a predator in every sense. The thought was unsettling, yet Poon couldn’t look away.

Then, the gunshot.

The sharp crack shattered the music, and chaos erupted. Poon’s ears, trained to detect danger, immediately honed in on the sound. Screams echoed through the bar as people scrambled for cover.

Before Poon could react, Marc was in front of him, moving with a speed that defied logic. His arm shot out, shielding Poon, his body a solid wall of protection.

Marc smelled of heavy cologne, sharp and intoxicating, mixed with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. They were close—closer than they’d been in years. The last time had been in high school, fists flying in a bitter fight. This was different.

Poon’s breath hitched, but his thoughts scattered as the chaos around them intensified. Marc’s grip was firm, unyielding, as if he’d done this a hundred times before.

“How did you move that fast?” Poon muttered, half to himself. He knew why Marc was trained for this.

Marc didn’t answer. His sharp gaze was fixed on the commotion, his hand steady near his weapon.

For a moment, Poon forgot the panic around them, lost in the proximity, the heat of Marc’s presence. Then another sound snapped him out of it—a second gunshot, closer this time.

Marc’s grip tightened. “Stay down.”

Marc’s grip on Poon’s arm was firm as he steered them through the chaos. The crowd was a writhing mass of panic, people pushing and shoving to get to the exits. Poon’s pulse raced, his instincts screaming at him to keep up, but the weight of Marc’s touch sent a different kind of jolt through him—one he didn’t have time to analyze.

“Where the hell are we going?” Poon hissed, trying to wrench his arm free.

“To the back,” Marc replied curtly, his voice steady despite the bedlam around them.

Poon stumbled as someone shoved past him, but Marc didn’t let go. The man’s strength was infuriating, his calm even more so.

“I can handle myself,” Poon snapped, finally yanking his arm free. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his own weapon, a sleek Glock he rarely had to use but always carried.

Marc’s eyes flicked to the gun, and for the first time, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Cute. Now stay close before you get yourself killed.”

Poon leveled the gun at him, keeping it low enough to avoid drawing attention but firm enough to make a point. “I’m not your sidekick, Marc. Keep your distance.”

Marc’s smirk faded, replaced by a look Poon couldn’t quite place—something between amusement and annoyance. “You’re wasting time.”

Before Poon could retort, another gunshot rang out, closer than before. The crowd surged again, and Marc moved like lightning, closing the gap between them. His hand shot out, gripping Poon’s wrist and forcing the gun down.

“You’ll get yourself trampled if you keep playing hero,” Marc growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Poon wanted to argue, to push him away, but the intensity in Marc’s eyes froze him in place. Damn him.

They finally broke free of the crowd, slipping through a staff-only door that led to the back of the bar. The sudden quiet was jarring, the muffled chaos behind them a stark contrast to the eerie stillness ahead.

“This way,” Marc muttered, leading them down a narrow hallway.

Poon followed reluctantly, his gun still in hand, though he doubted it would do much good against whatever—or whoever—was causing this.

Marc stopped abruptly in front of a door and pushed it open, revealing a small storage closet filled with crates of alcohol. He shoved Poon inside before stepping in after him and closing the door quietly.

“What the hell are we doing?” Poon whispered harshly, glaring at Marc.

“Hiding,” Marc replied, his tone clipped. He pressed his ear to the door, his body tense.

Poon opened his mouth to argue but stopped when he heard voices outside. The language was unmistakable—Japanese.

His blood ran cold. The Japanese mafia.

The voices grew louder, the words sharp and precise. Poon’s grip on his gun tightened as he exchanged a glance with Marc.

“They’re looking for someone,” Marc murmured, his voice barely audible.

“No kidding,” Poon muttered back, his sarcasm a reflex even now.

Marc shot him a look but didn’t reply. He motioned for Poon to stay quiet, his hand resting near his own weapon.

The voices passed by, fading into the distance. Poon let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“They’re not here for the drinks,” Poon whispered, his voice laced with unease.

Marc didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the door.

Marc finally turned to him, his expression unreadable. “We wait until it’s clear, then we find out what the hell is going on.”

“And if they find us first, you dumbass?”

Marc’s lips curved into a grim smile. “Then we make sure they regret it.”

Poon hated the way his pulse quickened at the determination in Marc’s voice. This was the man he’d spent years despising, the man who always seemed to be one step ahead. But in this moment, Poon couldn’t deny the strange, unwelcome sense of security Marc’s presence brought.

The tension between them was palpable, the small space amplifying every unspoken word, every lingering glance.

“Try not to shoot me in the back,” Marc said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious.

“Try not to give me a reason to,” Poon shot back, his voice colder than he felt.

Marc chuckled softly, the sound low and unsettling. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marc’s sharp eyes scanned the storage closet for another way out. “There,” he whispered, nodding toward a barely visible door at the back of the room.

Poon followed his gaze, noticing the faint outline of a hidden passage. “really thought of everything, huh?” he muttered, moving toward it.

Marc ignored the comment, shoving aside a stack of crates to reveal the door. He pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down.

“Let’s go,” Marc said, his tone as flat as ever.

Poon couldn’t resist a smirk. “Not even a comment about how kinky this setup is? What kind of secret rooms does hehave back here?”

Marc didn’t dignify that with a response, stepping into the passage without hesitation.

Poon sighed, following close behind. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

The staircase led to a small, dimly lit room draped in red sheer curtains. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the dim glow of a single red bulb cast eerie shadows across the space.

“Seriously, this is giving ‘Chimon’s secret dungeon’ vibes,” Poon said, his voice light but his senses on high alert.

“Focus,” Marc snapped, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.

Poon was about to retort when he heard footsteps outside. The sound grew louder, stopping just outside the door.

His heart raced as the doorknob turned, the door creaking open slightly. Without thinking, Poon lunged at Marc, pressing their bodies together as he wrapped his arms around the taller man’s neck.

“What the—” Marc started, but Poon cut him off, leaning up and pressing his lips to Marc’s.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss—it was rushed, desperate, and entirely for show. Poon’s mind raced as he let out an exaggerated moan, hoping to sell the act.

The door paused, then closed again with a soft click.

Poon pulled back immediately, his face flushed but his expression smug. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice low as he stepped away.

Marc stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. For a moment, Poon thought he might actually say something, but instead, Marc turned and headed toward another door at the back of the room.

“I didn’t hear you say thank you,” Poon called after him, his tone teasing.

Marc glanced back, his expression colder than ever. “Don’t push your luck.”

Poon chuckled softly, shaking his head as he followed Marc out of the room.

They emerged into an alley behind the bar, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. The chaos of the attack was still audible in the distance, but the alley was quiet.

Marc checked the area quickly, his movements efficient and precise. “We’re clear. Let’s move.”

Poon nodded, his earlier bravado fading slightly as the weight of the situation settled in.

As they made their way toward the main road, Poon couldn’t help but glance at Marc. The man’s jaw was set, his focus unshakable.

“Thanks for catching me back there,” Poon said casually, trying to lighten the mood.

Marc didn’t look at him. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Poon smirked, falling into step beside him. “No promises.”

As they exited the alley, the sharp tang of blood filled the air. Several bodies of the kamikazes lay sprawled across the ground, their black attire soaked in crimson. The eerie silence was broken only by the faint hum of distant sirens.

Standing amidst the carnage was Namtarn, her elegant figure a stark contrast to the grim scene. Her lips curled into a faint smile as she adjusted her gloves, the glint in her eyes betraying her otherwise composed demeanor.

Next to her was Nanon, his suit slightly disheveled, his tie loosened. Beside him stood Chimon, looking similarly ruffled but far too composed for someone who had just been attacked. Poon’s instincts told him their state wasn’t entirely due to the chaos of the evening but something or someone else.

Sky stepped forward from where he had been standing near Nani, way too close for Poon’s liking, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Thanks for the help, eh,” he said, his words directed at Marc.

 “Had to carry dead weight.” Marc’s tone was dry, not engaging with Sky.

Poon bristled at the comment, but he bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time for petty squabbles.

Marc, unfazed as ever, extended his hand as one of the guards handed him a silencer. Without a word, Marc walked over to the bodies and methodically shot each one again, the muffled sounds of the silencer punctuating the tension in the air.

Poon watched, a mix of unease and morbid fascination churning in his gut. Marc’s movements were cold, calculated—like a predator toying with its prey. When he reached the last body, Marc’s lips curled into a Machiavellian smile as he paused, his gaze shifting to two barely conscious men who had been dragged into the clearing by the guards.

Everyone knew what that meant.

Marc’s specialty wasn’t just killing—it was extracting information in ways that made even the most hardened criminals break. The two men wouldn’t leave this place alive, but not before they spilled every secret they held.

The ambiance shifted, growing heavier.

“This isn’t random,” Namtarn said finally, her voice calm but laced with steel. “Someone’s sending a message.”

Nanon nodded, his expression grim.

Chimon leaned back against a wall, his usual smirk replaced by a look of cold calculation. “They’ve got guts, I’ll give them that.”

Sky crossed his arms, his playful demeanor giving way to something sharper. “Guts matter for shit. They made a mistake. You don’t fuck with us.”

Marc handed the silencer back to the guard, his eyes dark with purpose. “I’ll handle the informants. You’ll have your answers by morning.” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared into the shadows with a group of guards, his presence lingering like a ghost.

Poon exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest refusing to dissipate. He glanced at Nani, who looked unusually serious. Even Chimon, who thrived on chaos, seemed on edge.

This wasn’t just an attack—it was a declaration of war.

And in their world, wars didn’t end with apologies.